


Forged in Life

by TriplePirouette



Category: Operation: Endgame (2010), Ravenous (1999)
Genre: AU, F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2012, cannibal fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriplePirouette/pseuds/TriplePirouette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hart was dead, to begin with. Ives himself couldn't die. Will three ghosts who he thinks he's hallucinating be enough to save him from his horrible fate? </p><p>Written for the Tumblr Rumbelle Secret Santa 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crankynerdgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Crankynerdgirl).



> Warning: Cannibalism, adult language, sexual content, frightening images, also contains triggers for purging. Ives also frankly discusses his views on religion. There is no desire or intent to offend ANY religion or belief system.
> 
> For Crankynerdgirl as part of the Rumbelle secret santa. She prompted Hiero/Ives, A Christmas Carol Adaptation. I hope you like this take, my dear. You could have asked ANYONE to write ANYTHING for you, so I'm honored you picked me! Title From A Christmas Carol: “I wear the chain I forged in life....I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it.”
> 
> Thanks a MILLION to my lovely beta K.L. Hufflepuff, who makes my work infinitely better, and to the lovely ddagent, the captain of out crackship. :)

Francis Ives cursed, spitting into the toilet and sticking his fingers down his throat again. He gagged, but couldn't vomit, couldn't bring up anything but the burning bile from the back of his throat. “Fucking hell,” he cursed harshly, sitting back against the edge of the tub, the tile cold beneath him.

 

It wasn't the first time he'd ever eaten someone with some kind of drug in their system, but he thought he'd gotten better at spotting the little fuckers, high out of their minds on bad trips.

 

This, for certain, was a bad trip.

* * *

 

If he hadn't been so ravenous, so hungry, so thirsting for warm blood and raw flesh, he wouldn't be in this mess. No, he'd seen that drifter, alone and half dead already, and taken him down, barely taking time to wipe the dirt from his skin before he broke the surface with his teeth, sucking greedily from the carotid artery, chewing on flesh from the thigh and bicep. He'd been so far past self-control that it was almost embarrassing, but no one had seen him with the body, no one had seen him toss it in the river, and no one had seen his bloody, satisfied gait as he swaggered through the woods to his small home, content with his kill.

 

He'd stripped his bloody clothes off, starting a fire and letting his naked skin revel in the warmth from the fireplace. It had been the only heat, the only warmth in the small home in the middle of the forest. He was, after all, a careful monster and lived with as little as possible, drawing as little attention as he could. He'd bathed, slung on a robe, and dozed before the flames, content with one hand stroking his distended stomach.

 

That was when the trouble began.

 

“Ives...”

 

He startled, his eyes snapping open. The small home was bathed in firelight with plenty of dark corners, but not enough room in any for someone to hide. Especially not a dead man. He sighed, shutting his eyes again.

 

“Ives...”

 

He stood this time, his heart pounding. “Show yourself!” He called out into the dark house, the one room cabin that had hidden him for decades suddenly less like home and far more sinister. The shadows in each corner felt darker, the grain of his beautiful wooden walls seemed to pulse with life. Furniture seemed to morph and shape in the corner of his eye, but then he'd turn and it was right as rain, sitting there... innocent. He listened for the sounds of another person, the give away breathing or the pounding heart. The only sounds, however, were the rasps of his breath and the crackle of the fire. He picked up the iron poker, slipping across the floor barefoot. He examined each nook of the tiny home: in the small closet, in his old fashioned bathroom, under his bed, and in each and every shadowed corner. Nothing was amiss, even if he felt like the world was shifting just at the edge of his vision.

 

The poker fell to his side from it's ready position on his shoulder when he'd gotten around the entire home. There was nothing, no one. He sighed when he felt a cold breeze across the back of his neck. “Colonel Ives...”

 

He jumped and turned, the poker one again up to defend himself, but there was nothing there. There was no mistaking the voice this time, however. It sent a chill down his spine. He'd seen the man dead, been rid of him for years, but he had been wendigo and that meant that there was every possibility his old friend had come for him. His heart sped up, his palms slicked with sweat. His eyes darted back and forth through the empty corners of his simple home, the wooden walls and floor and the shadows betraying nothing.

 

It started just at the corner of his eye: a wisp of smoke. It was a tiny little tendril that swirled in a tight spiral, just enough to think that he was imagining it. But soon there were tendrils pulling from the floor and the ceiling, from between his legs and across the room, slipping around him to coalesce before him, a grey blob slowly morning to a bulbous shape, slowly taking form and color until there before him stood Colonel Hart, eyes alight and ruddy cheeked, see-through as if he were a stained glass window, but alive and laughing before him.

 

“What in seven hells?” Ives whispered, slowly stepping back from the apparition.

 

The ghost laughed at him, big and hearty, as his fingers smoothed down his beard. “Thirteen hells, I'm afraid. We were not quite as knowledgeable as we liked to think, Ives.” Hart laughed again, his form solidifying more and more until the raggedy uniform was clear, as were the chains that surrounded him.

 

“LSD,” Ives mumbled, dropping the poker at his feet and falling to the floor. “Bath Salts, maybe. Yes, I haven't been on those before.” He took his head in his hands, sighing and rocking back and forth. “Drugs, some kind of drug. You're a hallucination.”

 

Hart laughed again, this time the rattling of chains accompanying his guffaw. “Oh no, my friend. I'm afraid that this is all real. When you're a wendigo you touch the other side. You have life beyond that of normal men. And, you also get visitations by former wendigos that have died at your hand.”

 

Ives looked up, his mouth wide open. “I did not kill you, my friend.”

 

Hart crouched down, his eyes across from Ives' and filled with darkness. “No, but Boyd did, and he was your monster to control.” Hart sighed standing with the clank of heavy chains. “I've come to warn you, my friend, that the wendigo is not a natural state. It is an unholy thing that will leave you chained in the fires of Hell for eternity.”

 

Ives laughed, lying flat on his back. “Once upon a time I might have believed you, my friend. Thought you an angel sent to change my ways, sent from a God I no longer believe in. I might have repented in the name of my dead wife and child, might have found solace in religion again, might have changed.” He laughed, a silly little twitter that built up, breaking from his lips in a hysterical bark as it stole the air from his words. “But you're a hallucination. I know that, science knows that. Religion isn't real, it's a construct. What's real is my life, the power I get from the blood, and the satisfaction of it's everlasting sustenance. I have nothing to fear from Hell if I never die!”

 

Hart roared, anger turning the apparition a bright red and deep grey, his chains clanking furiously. “You dare question me? Don't you see what I'm trying to do? I'm literally in Hell, Ives, tortured for eternity!” The ghost grew in size and the house shook. Ives' eyes grew wide, but he didn't move, fear clenching his muscles tight. “I have no idea what religion we should have followed or what God I could have worshiped to make this different, but our sins will have us chained for eternity, suffering more than you've ever suffered before!”

 

The ghost and the wendigo stared at one another for long moments before Ives hurled the poker through the apparition with a strangled yell. The smoky figure didn't even shiver as it passed right through him and landed with a clatter on the floorboards. “What have you to tell me of suffering, my friend? Your life left you long before you could suffer, long before you watched anyone you loved die, or saw the fear in the eyes of someone you thought you could love when you told them what you were. Did you live through winters where you wished you could die? Did you live through the death of those you loved? Did you?” Hart's only answer was to laugh at him.

 

Ives pushed himself up, swinging at the ghost. “Go away! Ghost or illusion or hallucination, just leave me!” He grunted, kneeling before the massive thing. “Drugs,” he whimpered to himself. “Stupid prick must have been on drugs.”

 

“No drugs,” Hart said softly. It was the first human tone that had come out of the being across from him. “Change your ways, Ives. You're lucky. Touching the other side as you do, you get a second chance. Three of my brethren will come for you tonight.”

 

Ives blinked his eyes and tried to push himself to standing but he couldn't. “How much, and of what did he take. I've never felt like this before...”

 

“Pay attention!” Hart roared, forcing Ives' eyes to snap to him. “That's better. Not drugs, my friend. Ghosts. Three ghosts will come to you by morning. Change your ways with the dawning of the next day, and you'll be free of my fate.”

 

The ghost slowly faded the same way he came, leaving Ives in only the glow of the fire. He scrambled on his hands and knees to the bathroom, sticking his fingers down his throat and attempting to let loose the rest of the man he'd eaten.

* * *

Ives crawled from the bathroom to his bed, curling under the duvet with no finesse and sluggish limbs. He was in for whatever the man had been on, and it would likely last at least the night, if not into the next day. He'd bleed himself and search for another kill, but he'd already suffered this evening and he couldn't be sure that he wouldn't do something stupid outside on whatever the hell was in his system.

 

A drunk left him buzzed, a high as a kite pot smoker left him warm and mellow. Various dugs gave him breaking highs and soft lows, tiny rises that he could maneuver and enjoy. He'd eaten an LSD addict once, and he'd wandered for days and woken up in the middle of the dessert carrying a bag of canned soups. At least then he'd known what he was in for: experimenting with drugs in the systems of his victims when he'd known what they'd taken had been fun. But now? Now he didn't know what he was on, what he could expect, how it was going to make it's way through his system... he hadn't eaten anyone more than mildly drunk or high in decades. He felt fine, felt perfectly healthy except for the low ache behind his eyes and the rawness in his throat and stomach from trying to purge.

 

He just needed to sleep, to curl up and sleep this one off, to go out in the morning and find a suitable kill to wash this all from his body. He could do it, he could make it through one night of this.  


	2. Chapter 2

“Papa?”

 

His eyelids fluttered, but he didn't open them. Instead Ives slipped his hand out, holding it palm up, as he pulled the blankets aside. “Come on, my boy, it's cold. Don't wake your mother.”

 

He groaned, waiting for the chilled little body to lean into him, but no movement came. Slowly, time came back to the old cannibal and he sighed heavily, pulling the cover tight over him.

 

The small voice came again. “Papa, wake up.”

 

This time Ives groaned. He knew that his mind was playing tricks on him, cruel, dark tricks, but he opened his eyes anyway. There, before him, was the glowing apparition of his ten year old son, warm and healthy as he looked right before their family set sail for the new world. “No,” he groaned out. “No, if there's any God out there do not make me see this...” His son, with his sharp nose and his wife's softly rounded face, his deep eyes and her loving smile... he was dressed in his Sunday best, long pants and a warm wool coat, his blonde mop of hair sitting messily on his brow. Ives lost his breath, his heart catching in his throat as he looked at the boy, lost to him for so very long.

 

The boy smiled at him. “Papa, don't you see? It's by God's grace that I'm here. I've come to save you.”

 

Ives' hand shook as he reached out to his son. “James... oh, Jamie my boy, you're not real.”

 

James reached out and took his father's hand, shock flitting on the man's face at the touch. “I am, Papa.”

 

Tears fell down Ives' face as she scooted across the bed to sit on it's edge. “I'm sick... I must be sick.”

 

Jamie reached out and hugged his father. Ives grasped him tight, trying to ignore the odd sensation of the boy; he felt like a warm water bottle, no bones or muscle, but solid enough. “You are, father. But I've come to help save you. I'm here to remind you of your past, of who you were.”

 

Ives clutched at his son, burying his nose in the soft, glowing hairs on his head. “That man is gone.”

 

Jamie stepped back, taking his father's hand as he stood. “No, no Papa. That man is still in there.” He pulled Ives from his bed, and immediately the room around him changed. “That man is here.”

 

Holding Jamie's hand he found himself in the small hovel that had been their home in Scotland. Jamie as a toddler was playing on the floor with simple wooden blocks, his wife; oh his beautiful wife was at the stove, roasting a small foul and vegetables to go with it. “Jamie...” Ives whispered, staring at the room beyond him.

 

“Christmas, just before I was four. Do you remember, Papa?” Jamie looked up, his glowing face even warmer with a sure smile on his lips.

 

Ives held his son's hand tighter. “Of course I do. We'd just changed parishes. It was my first Christmas Mass with them. It was a rough parish, full of scoundrels and sinners. I feared for your lives every moment I wasn't with you.”

 

Jamie chuckled. “That was the year you learned to box.”

 

“Anything to keep you two safe.” He drifted over, staring at the soft face of his wife. “Your mother, she was so beautiful.”

 

“Inside and out, Papa. You knew that better than anyone.” Jamie left him to kneel by his former self, blowing across the babe's blocks until they fell over, causing the child to giggle.

 

Ives looked over, a smile tipping at the corner of his lips. “We met when she came to me for confession. She didn't know who was behind the window, and confessed to having impure thoughts for the new young priest. Well, that was me, and I had been having my own impure thoughts about the lovely blonde that came to nearly every service.”

 

Jamie stood, smiling at his father even as the man's hand slipped through his wife's body in an effort to touch her. “She wanted to kiss you,” Jamie giggled, his hand at his mouth. He'd always been too young to understand the implication of his words, and dear Helen had been so careful to keep him innocent. “And instead of giving her a penance, you asked if you could court her. I love that story.”

 

Ives dropped his hand, his eyes dark and sad. “We were married within the year, and you were here barely a year later.” He looked at his glowing son, then down to the toddler. “What point do you have by showing me this? Showing me that which I cannot have?”

 

The boy smiled. “Then you accept that I'm here to save you?”

 

Ives walked to him, carding his hand through his son's wavy hair. “I accept nothing yet. What point has all this?”

 

Jamie took his hand once more and they found themselves in the small compartment of a steam liner. “No!” Ives screamed, his jaw quivering as he turned away from the two forms huddled in the bed, his own young form prostrated at their feet, praying. “No, take me away from this!”

 

The glowing apparition of his son stared at the scene in wonder. “I cannot. You must listen to your own words.”

 

“No,” he protested, taking his son's hand in his and trying to make whatever magic existed in this vision work by pressing their palms together, “I will not.”

 

He was interrupted by the echos of his former self as he prayed. “Heavenly Father, I do not understand your plan. To take those I love so brutally? I have trusted in your plan from the time I was a young man, and I try to trust in you now. My wife, my son, my beautiful Helen and my innocent James, why have you called them to you so young?”

 

Tears streamed down Ives' face. “Why?”

 

“Listen, Papa,” Jamie begged, watching as his young father stood and rounded the bed where mother and son were cuddled close, resting his hands on the deceased Helen and Jamie's foreheads as he whispered prayers. “Listen to your own words.”

 

“I will not make your deaths in vein,” the young Ives vowed, stroking through Helen's short, curly hair before he ran his fingers over her eyelids, shutting her hazy blue eyes for the last time. “I will live a good life, I will be a good man, I will find a flock to bring to God in this new world and live the life we dreamed of...”

 

The scene faded away to darkness, nothingness, lit only by Jamie's glowing from. “You went back on your word, Papa.”

 

Ives fell to his knees, the tears rising to hysterics. “That was before they left us! They locked me in there with you, left me with your bodies as they fell apart until we were in port! Said that the consumption could spread, said that I could very well die of it, too.” His body shook as he curled in on himself. “They left me there with you, and then locked me up in a hospital for observation for weeks. I couldn't see to your burial, couldn't see to your final rights. When they let me out I found that they'd burned your bodies, that the ashes had been disposed of and all of our things had been burned to keep the scourge from spreading. I couldn't even... nothing left of either of you! Nothing! Not a picture or your mother's ring or even a letter. I had nothing and yet I tried.”

 

His body shook, his hands clammy and aching from being held in tight fists. “I went on. I found the church and I tried to preach, to move on, to help those who needed it, but every night behind my eyes all I could see was your sunken faces, your mother's eyes. I let you both down, and our God let us down.”

 

“It was a trial, Papa,” The glowing boy said, standing still and stagnant with almost no emotion in his voice, an echo of his son.

 

Ives whirled on him, spitting as he yelled into the nothingness. “A trial? A trial! To take all I own, to kill everything I love? To leave me with no hope and no way to find any? That wasn't a trail that was hell!”

 

The ghost of his son glowed for a moment, and suddenly they were back in the small cabin. “You made a promise, father.”

 

Ives, still furious and in a tangle of limbs on the floor, roared, “And our heavenly father promised me! He promised a good life if I led my own properly, he promised riches in love and faith for those that followed his path. He promised salvation for the faithful! From the time I was your age I repented every sin, I followed every law both human and holy, and loved unconditionally.”

 

Jamie's face turned stony. “How could you break your promise, father?”

 

Ives stood with his hand at the cross around his throat. He yanked on the chain until it broke, the pewter charm falling to the floor. His voice was cold and hard. “How could He break His?”

 

He watched his son fade from view, sad brown eyes and curly hair staying just longer than anything else.

 

His heart pounded and he could feel fire running through his veins. This wasn't fair. This wasn't right. It had been decades since he thought of them, since he'd seen that night flash in his nightmares. Now he'd see it over and over again: the death of his wife and child. He'd see Helen's beautiful smile fade from her face, Jamie's laugh intertwined with the hacking, bloody coughs. Forget about chains: this was his hell.

 

He stomped over to a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of scotch and drinking. He let it burn down his throat but didn't stop until he'd chugged down as much as he could stand. Who cared what kind of hallucinogen was in his system now, he wanted to be numb, to forget. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and left the bottle open on the counter.

 

He fell into his bed, forcing his eyes shut.

 

Behind them, Helen stared at him.  


	3. Chapter 3

The incessant knocking at the door woke Ives. He fell out of bed, stumbling. The alcohol had caught up with him, numbing him sufficiently. He didn't even care that someone was at his door when no one ever came to his door. He didn't grab for a knife or the poker still in the middle of the floor, he just kicked the duvet away and stumbled to the door, unlocking it and throwing it wide.

 

“Come in!” He slurred loudly, eyeing the man across from him up and down. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

 

The man dragged himself across the threshold, closing the door behind him. “Now you're hospitable?” The man laughed, turning him into a grotesque picture, indeed. It was the hobo that Ives had killed this evening, and he was as he looked when Ives tossed him in the river: blank, dead eyes that didn't blink, right arm pulled out of it's socket, his head tilting at an awkward angle from the broken neck. His left leg was covered in blood, his thigh eaten away to expose the bone. Every step he took the muscle shook and dripped, his arm dangling at an awkward angle.

 

Ives shook his head, trying to hold his balance. “What were you on?”

 

The ghost tried to shake his head, but his broken neck made the movement wobble and his shoulders shivered. “Stone cold sober.” His voice was deep, but rasped and far away.

 

“You got a name?” Ives asked, walking back to sit on the edge of his bed and stare.

 

The zombie-like man limped toward him. “Steven.” He swung his dislocated arm out to Ives to shake hands, but it swung away sadly when Ives didn't return the gesture. “Anything else you want to know?”

 

Ives threw his hands in the air, licking his lips. “Why? Why does my brain torture me so tonight?”

 

Steven guffawed in a dark and distant way. “Your friend, your son... both try to save you. Why do you fight it?”

 

Ives stood and walked away from the unblinking stare of the man. He grabbed the bottle of scotch and took a healthy swig, letting the fire of it racing down his throat remind him that he was awake. “Nothing to fight. There is no salvation for one such as me and to pretend otherwise... to lie even to myself...” He slammed his hand against the counter. “Fuck you, go away.” He turned away from the ghost and stared at the counter, waiting to hear the sloshing sound of the raw muscle as he limped away.

 

It never came.

 

“No, you don't get to do that. You ate my leg, I think I fucking deserve some fucking attention.” The scraggly man limped closer to Ives, his meat and bones making the most disgusting squish and squeak with each movement. “You're coming with me.”

 

Ives turned slowly, expecting to see the man, but found himself outside his home. He looked left to see the dark one room cabin in the cold night. He looked right and they were hundreds of miles away, on an abandoned road filled with cracks and potholes. One more look and they were in someplace he'd never seen before. “What the fuck is this?” Ives sputtered, closing his eyes tight and leaning down to grip his knees, dizziness overtaking him.

 

Steven limped around the beige file room, patting the tall cases lightly, knowingly. “This is a very old basement in a very old building in Washington DC. Down here, they keep records.”

 

Ives huffed out a tight laugh. “No shit, Sherlock. I thought they kept kittens in these here file cabinets.”

 

Steven flung his body against one of them, causing a huge crash to reverberate through the whole room. “Straighten up, shit head, you'll want to listen to this.”

 

Two men came through the door to the small room, both wearing suits. “Look, you might think you'll find what you're looking for in here, but I swear, you're not going to find anything.” The bald man talked to the younger man with a head full of hair, playing with his tie and exuding anxiety.

 

The young man started pouring through files. “Thousands of disappearances, I swear, they make a pattern, Chariot. Some found with teeth marks. Some found dismembered, some never found at all.”

 

The bald man, Chariot, laughed, his hand playing over his gun. “Ha, right, whatever, fuck face. That's why they're unsolved cases. Because some have some things in common, some don't, but they're all still open. Fucking rook...”

 

“Goddamn, just because I'm a rookie doesn't make my hunch wrong.” He punched the cabinets and Ives rolled his eyes. This was boring and uninformative, and the room felt like it was spinning.

 

“You're not getting it, are you?” Steven propped himself up against a cabinet, leaving a slimy wake that no one seemed to see. “I wasn't always homeless and scrounging for change on the side of the road. My name used to be Strength. I used to work with these people. I used to be an assassin. This idiot is an assassin named Magician and he has got it in his head that he knows who you are. Thinks you're some kind of prophetic serial killer, which, I guess you are, Ives.”

 

Ives laughed at him. “You went down real easy for an assassin.”

 

Steven bared his teeth, blood dribbling from his lips. “Yeah well, an op went bad. Safe-house got fucked over from the inside: I was lucky to be alive when it was over. Didn't want them to find me... I was looking to get myself lost but good when you came along. Looking to start over.”

 

“Am I supposed to feel bad for you, _Strength_?” Ives mocked him, licking his lips obscenely.

 

The dead man gurgled low. “Just fucking listen.”

 

Magician pulled a hand full of files to the side. “Look, they all have the same MO, and maybe that is just coincidence, but with DNA profiling and some good detective work-”

 

Chariot laughed. “You'll what? Crack the case? They're drifters, loners. No one's ever missed them and no one will ever miss them. Besides, you can't be the hero, asshole. You are a highly trained assassin. You don't get to be both.”

 

The younger man looked up from the files, ready to toss a comeback out, when the door opened. Ives' eyes were drawn to the woman in the doorway: bright blue eyes, searing red lips, bouncy blonde hair like he'd only ever seen on one other living soul. “Hey, you two!” Her voice was warm and southern and made his heart beat faster. “The Empress is looking for you.”

 

The bald man kicked one of the filing cabinets, pulling his flask from his pocket. “Fuck me sideways with a rusty chainsaw, what does that bitch want now?”

 

“Helen...” Ives whispered, stumbling closer to her.

 

The blonde looked at her manicure then shrugged at them. “Don't right know, but if you're not in her office in fifteen minutes, she told me I'm allowed to use you as target practice.” She smiled sweetly, as both men straightened up. “I just got a brand new set of throwing knives...how else will I know if they're sharp enough if I don't test them, hum?” She bit her lip and twisted a toe on the floor. “Who wants to go first?” Something inside Ives snapped. He reached out for her, but his hand passed right through her.

 

Chariot started to speak, but the younger man just nodded and pushed the older man out, fear in his eyes. “Thanks, Hierophant.” His voice drifted back from down the hall as Hiero followed, a spring in her step. “You fucking know she'd do it, man. Even Empress is afraid of her.”

 

The scene faded in three quick changes, back the same path they came until Ives was dizzy and on his knees next to his bed. “What the fuck was that?” he spat out, trying to catch his breath.

 

Steven hobbled over, kicking him with the leg with the exposed bone. The bone cracked and the muscle spat blood and sinew onto Ives, but neither flinched. “They're gonna find you. They're gonna kill you. I'm going to make sure of it. Ghosts can do more than haunt, you know. You have one chance. You repent tonight, make peace with your God, and starting tomorrow you never eat anyone ever again.” Steven spat at Ives, as disgusted a look as possible crossing his face with his distorted features. “You get this chance and you would give it up?”

 

Ives stood, shaking the dead man. “Who was that woman?” His eyes were wide and round, wild with emotion. “Hierophant... who is she?”

 

Steven pulled out of Ives' arms. “That's it? That's all you get out of this?” He tilted and screamed, horse and dark in the night. “I had a life! It wasn't much of one, but it was mine! Then you killed me! Fuck yeah I've killed, but it's different. I shot shady bastards and heads of state that were killing their own people. You fucking ate a homeless man. You took my life into your own for what? For what? Fuck off. I tried, I did, but you don't even see how sick you are, eating other people. Killing them to eat them.” He turned, his body creaking with the effort. “You get one more chance, you piece of shit. Repent by morning.”

 

The ghost was gone, but the fire in Ives was not.  


	4. Chapter 4

The chill filled the room only a few hours before dawn, and Ives didn't even need to turn around. “Who are you then?” He shut the cover of his laptop, sliding it back on his plain desk. He turned slowly, chuckling lightly at the figure in black robes. “A bit stereotypical, aren't we?”

 

The tall being didn't move, didn't talk, but the air around Ives grew colder. “Yes, well, fine. I suppose we should get this over with.” Ives stood, walking over to the being, poking and prodding at the dark muslin and burlap that swayed even though there was no wind. “What are you going to show me?”

 

The room swirled in a dizzying cacophony of color, resolving with them in a graveyard. “My death?” Ives laughed high in the back of his throat, sliding a finger over the nearest marble stone. “That's funny because, well, I have a very hard time dying.”

 

 _Not if you are beheaded._ The voice was deep and dark and echoed in his skull. The words weren't spoken, they were just somehow in his mind, and that set him farther off balance than anything had so far.

 

Ives' hand quaked, but he tried to be stoic. “Alright, Henry the Eighth, let's get this over with.”

 

A decrepit hand, dried grey skin clinging to the skeleton, pointed behind Ives without a word. Ives turned and walked, the dead leaves and grass crunching beneath his bare feet. He looked around, but finally crouched and let his hand run over the monochrome marble.

 

He laughed. “It's blank.”

 

The chill that surrounded him felt angry, upset, but the being didn't speak or reveal itself. They moved quicker than Ives could even comprehend: he lost his balance in a grave yard and by the time his hand went down to steady his crouch he was in his own cabin, looking at himself.

 

His future self sat in a chair, looking tired and drawn.

 

_If you don't die, what life have you then? Eternally searching for your next kill, waiting, sitting your days alone-_

 

The room shivered violently and the being in black stood tall, tapping his scythe hard on the ground. The chill surrounded him again, and he got the distinct feeling that this wasn't going to plan. The future Ives before them didn't change his position, but the fire got warmer and his skin was less wan. His hands held a small object and Ives could see the pewter cross he'd tossed on the floor just this morning around his future neck. It hadn't been there a moment ago, but was now. It seemed the apparition was as confused as he, but Ives pushed on. “I'm used to alone. The world has given me alone. I've lived with alone. That's nothing-”

 

There was a knock at the door, then it rattled and future Ives jumped up, a smile across his face of joy that hadn't existed in decades. When he heard the voice on the other side, Ives understood why. “Darlin' please let me in! It's cold out here!”

 

The future him opened the door just wide enough for a bundle of coat and scarf to slip in before he closed it behind him. A voice that he'd only just learned, but somehow still knew deep down, spoke happily with just a little shiver to her voice. “It is freezing out there! Why did you lock the top lock?”

 

Hierophant slowly started unraveling her scarf, taking off her hat and then unbuttoning her coat. Future Ives smiled like a wolf, slipping the heavy coat from her shoulders. “There are dangerous people in these woods, love. Can't be too careful.” Hierophant shook the snow from her healed, furry boots, rubbing her hands over her woolen tights with a smile as he hung her coat on a hook by the door right next to his.

 

Ives had a similar smile on his face. “Helen...” slipped from his lips beneath his breath. He shook his head, eyes looking closer. “Hierophant.”

 

 _What did you do?_ The dark voice rang in his head, but he didn't look away from the scene before him.

 

She laughed, her golden curls bouncing around her face as she toyed with the buttons on his shirt. “The only dangerous people in these woods, darlin', are the two of us.” Hierophant pushed Ives against the door, pressing her body into his. “I missed you.”

 

Ives watched his future self grope the beautiful woman in a familiar, welcome way. She tore his shirt off and he ripped her sweater over her head. She bit his lip and sucked at the blood there, he clamped onto her nipple trough the lace of her bra until she screamed in a haze of pleasure and pain, the red bleeding through the white lace as he pulled away.

 

 _WHAT DID YOU DO?_ Rang through his head again and he turned back to the dark ghost behind him.

 

“That woman, who is she?” Ives asked harshly, his eyes unable to keep from glancing back at the two as they writhed against the door in the firelight. “I saw her in my last hallucination or visitation or whatever the fuck it was. Tell me who she is.”

 

The being shook, though Ives couldn't tell if it was with power or fury. _You are not a creature of light and love. You were to die. You were to be alone. You must learn your lesson to be redeemed and live-_

 

Ives laughed heartily as the couple behind him moaned, moving to the floor with Hierophant's legs wrapped around her lover.

 

The being howled in his mind. _WHAT DID YOU DO?_

 

Ives smiled. “I started looking for her.” The creature stalked toward him, but Ives simply turned back to watch himself and the beautiful woman, unafraid of the being's power. “Coincidence? Divine intervention in the wrong direction? Who knows.” He barked a laugh, licking his lips at the site before him. “You probably know.”

 

Ives watched as he worshiped the woman's body, licking and sucking around the half hooked bra and the skirt hitched high around her waist, their rhythm only faltering slightly. She grabbed him, holding him tight in a way that his former wife never had, yet, in this woman her saw her: he saw her eyes and her smile and her hair, her voice was similar but somehow darker with the different accent, just like him. And in her eyes? He saw a soul that he knew he could love. He saw his Helen, his angel of his old life, fallen in a beautifully debauched way. He didn't know how, didn't know why, but this woman was as dark as he was, and meant in every way for him. She cried out, bearing her throat and tossing her head back, and he couldn't help but rub himself through his pants.

 

“I'll find her,” Ives whispered, ripping his hand away and turning to the being to point it in his face. “I will find her because she is the woman I am meant to love. My Helen, we were meant to be together. She and I always said that. My God, your God, took her away from me too soon. I couldn't see it then, but I see it now.”

 

 _What false thing do you see, monster?_ The voice growled in his mind.

 

Ives crouched by the lovers, running his fingers just above her bared throat as the future him sat up to push deeper into her. “I see that the Lord took her away to make me what I am now, and he took her away, only to give her back. He's giving her back to me.”

 

_That is not-_

 

Ives growled, disrupting the being. “That's not what? Not what I'm supposed to have? Not what I deserve? Didn't I deserve something for all the good I did? Didn't I deserve something for all the lives I saved and people I helped and hours spent away from my family when I was a good man? Don't I deserve something for watching them die? For being locked up with their bodies? For working until nearly my dying breath to help those sicker than me?” He screamed and paced, noticing not when Hierophant came with his name on her lips, or how the two lovers uttered their love in a sweaty heap. He didn't even notice when the room spun and shifted, leaving them back in his own time and home.

 

Ives' pulse quickened and his eyes were crazed as he marched up to the being. “I had a moment of weakness after an old man told me a story. One moment of weakness where I wondered if the body and the blood truly brought gifts and then... then! It was a miracle! It wasn't unholy or broken but a miracle that I was saved! I was saved through the body and the blood and I thanked Him. But he abandoned me then. The devil came then and I had nothing but my own desires and I saw a part of this world that no man should ever see. I saw a part of this world that is beautiful in it's own right.”

 

Ives took a deep breath and leaned forward, fire in his eyes. “Tell me! Tell me I don't deserve her!”

 

The being didn't answer him and he stalked closer. “Tell me!” He moved right up to the cold tower of fabric and finally pushed. His hands connected with fabric and bone, but by the time his arms were straight, the ghost was gone.

 

Ives stared at the air where the being had been. He stepped back, waiting for the heat of the fire dying in the middle of the room to hit him as the cold air snuck away. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath ragged. The fire licked low but the warmth slowly spread over to him. He stood, staring into the darkness of the cabin until the intensity had calmed.

 

He rubbed his eyes, slipping into bed. He laid back, closing his eyes tight as he slipped his hand beneath the waistband of his pants, gripping himself hard and pumping as he thought of the woman he knew as Hierophant.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning his home was as it always had been. There was a stray poker on the floor, and his laptop was still whirring with life and a flashing red light that said it needed to be charged, but it was all otherwise unchanged.

 

Ives, however, had been.

 

He slipped from bed to kneel on the floor, gathering the pieces of his broken necklace, the pewter charm still shining and whole. He held it in his hand as he got ready for the day, slipping it into his pocket once his jeans were on. He stepped outside into a fresh snow and sighed happily as his feet crunched into it.

 

Today was the start of a new beginning, but not because he was changing or repenting.

 

He was going to find her. Starting today, he was going to find her. His truck roared to life and he put the heater on high, easing it into the snow. Last night may have been faith or fantasy, hint or hallucination, but his computer didn't lie even if his mind did: she existed.

 

It had only been a blurry photo taken years ago, but she was real. If he had to spend a decade looking for her, he'd find her. It only took ten minutes for him to reach the small outpost that counted as a town, his mind preoccupied the entire way by thoughts of the beautiful blonde, and a few minutes later he was at the general store that reminded him far too much of the ones he'd visited when he'd still been a Colonel. He jumped out of his truck, hand in his pocket closed tight around the cross. It had been lifetimes since he'd thought of faith as anything other than a farce. After last night this seemed to warrant a little rethinking.

 

He stepped in to the small country store, bell above the door ringing brightly. “Mister Ives!” The bearded hulk of a man behind the counter smiled and greeted him.

 

Wide open spaces were great for private homes and unquestioned hunting, but it meant that he had to get all of his supplies from a few stores and they knew him far too well. “Mister Graves, how are you this fine morning?”

 

“Well, the misses isn't happy that I've got the store open, but it's a small town and people need things on Christmas morning, too!” He laughed in a ruddy, jolly way that somehow seemed far more infectious than it should.

 

A small smile bloomed on Ives' face. “Christmas? I'd lost track of the days. Merry Christmas, Mister Graves.”

 

“And you, good sir!” Graves laughed behind the counter, his wide belly bouncing happily. “What can I do for you today?'

 

Ives held out his small cross. “I was hoping you had something to put this on. I seem to have broken my chain.”

 

Graves looked at the charm and smiled, a twinkle in his eyes that made Ives feel as if perhaps the man knew his secret. “I think I have just the thing in the back. Give me a minute?”

 

Ives turned up his facade, a job that wasn't hard considering how oddly happy he was this morning. “Take two!”

 

While Graves whistled into the back of the store, Ives browsed the shelves. Nothing new or interesting. He'd have to go out of town soon to get some supplies soon, though the little white lie that he was a small game hunter helped him get most of the things he needed from town without too much fuss or suspicion. The bell above the door jingled again and as Ives turned to step back to the counter he was hit by a cold, down covered person who nearly bounced right off of him.

 

She sprawled on the floor with a high pitched squeal, lost in her coat, red scarf wrapping around her face and impractical high heels high in the air.

 

“Oh, I'm sorry, let me help you!” Ives stuck out his hand only to be met with familiar blue eyes when the woman sat up.

 

He smiled, struck by her beauty in real life. She was sharper somehow, more breathtaking with weight and mass to her. She took his hand and he helped her up, keeping his hands on her elbows. “Thank you...”

 

“Ives,” he said, his eyes soft and warm as he looked at her. “My name is Ives.”

 

She smiled, her eyes dipping low in a shy gesture, and it might have been the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. “Thank you, Ives.” Her fingers played against the heavy leather of his coat sleeves, her nails dragging across it with a light scratch as she gazed at his face.

 

He tilted his head to the side, awed. “Are you alright Miss...”

 

She giggled, a high pitched, child-like sound. “My friends call me Hiero, and yes. Yes, I'm fine.” She blinked her eyes shyly, biting her lip until the dry, chapped skin there under her lipstick bled just the tiniest bit. His heartbeat sped up.

 

Graves came out, calling Ives' name brightly and holding the cross out. “I think this should do, don't you?”

 

Ives stepped away from Hiero, looking at his newly shined pendant on a strong silver chain. “Yes, and thank you for cleaning it. Put that on my tab, will you?”

 

“Of course!” Graves smiled brightly across the room. “And who is this?”

 

Ives held out his hand as smiled. “Miss Hiero, as far as I know.”

 

Hiero smiled brightly, stepping to the counter. “I was hoping for a map, maybe some directions? I'm looking for an old friend, but he's not making it easy.” Graves nodded and stepped away, giving them a moment while he disappeared again, but Ives didn't miss the dark glint in her eye, the way the words rippled a little too easily off her tongue. She was lying, and it thrilled him. She turned, her eyes drawn to the object in his hand. “What a lovely cross!” Hiero smiled, running her fingers over it. “Are you religious, Ives?”

 

He smiled brightly at her, curling his fingers around hers, the cross held between both of their hands. “I used to be. I guess... I guess you could say I've found my faith again.”

 

Hiero turned serious, truth behind her gaze now. “I was raised in a very religious family. I can't say I've always been the best person, but my faith is very important to me.” a laugh like a breath slipped out as she smiled at him. “Jesus shows us what we need to see, don't you think?”

 

It felt wrong but oh so right. There was a seduction in her words, their fingers sliding over one another as they held the cross. “I know it to be true,” Ives whispered, leaning close. “After all, you're here in front of me, aren't you?”

 

She giggled, her nose scrunching tightly. “A girl might think you're flirting with her...”

 

“I am,” he whispered, stepping closer until their bodies touched.

 

Her face changed with his proximity, softening with a hint of devilish glee behind her eyes. “Flirting with me might be a dangerous proposition, Mister Ives.”

 

He leaned down slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn't move an inch as his lips neared hers. He didn't kiss her, but carefully slipped his tongue out, drawing the drop of blood from her cracks lips into his mouth. It wasn't much, but it was enough to set his pulse racing. He pulled back just far enough to look into her eyes. “I reckon I can hold my own.”

 

She licked her lip slowly, the taste of him lingering as she smiled. “I have some business to attend to,” she groused, walking her fingers slowly up his chest until they tangled in the hairs at the base of his neck, “but perhaps a gentleman like you could be persuaded to buy a lady such as myself dinner tonight?”

 

His face softened as he took her hands from around his neck, stepping back to kiss the knuckles of each softly. “Dinner it is. But I must warn you, I'm not gentleman.”

 

“Good,” she smirked, sashaying back against him to whisper in his ear, “because I'm no lady.”

 

Last night he thought he'd been on a bad trip, thought he'd been subject to nightmares and hallucinations. But now he saw the truth. His friend had tried to help him find salvation, but that was what Hart had never understood about Ives: he wasn't sorry, and didn't need to repent for finding his path in life. Instead, Hart had simply helped him find the next step on his new path: Hierophant.

 

She pulled away with a dark smirk, promises of things he could only dream of dancing in her eyes. She took her maps and payed for them sweetly, slipping her phone number quickly in his pocket before swinging her hips under her puffy coat as she left.

 

He watched out the glass door as she struggled in the snow, a smile blooming on his face as he held the cross tight in one hand, and the slip of paper with her number on it tight in the other.  


End file.
